


First, There Was Romania

by Snegurochka



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-29
Updated: 2007-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-10 23:16:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snegurochka/pseuds/Snegurochka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If <i>first</i> was Romania, that meant that <i>second</i> was Egypt, and nobody really wanted to think about Egypt, least of all Charlie. Still, he couldn't help but think of Romania as first. Sure as hell beat thinking of it as last.</p><p>6,300 words. NC-17. Explicit incest. August 2007.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First, There Was Romania

First, there was Romania.

Well, no, that wasn't quite right, because to call Romania the _first _meant that nothing back at the Burrow counted, and Charlie was fairly certain that it did.

Plus, if _first_ was Romania, that meant that _second_ was Egypt, and nobody really wanted to think about Egypt, least of all Charlie.

Still, he couldn't help but think of Romania as first. Sure as hell beat thinking of it as last.

*

The other English blokes at the colony liked to tease Charlie that it was the landlocked thing that made him so restless.

"Lot easier to flee a place by sea than by train," they'd say to him with their obnoxious winks and slaps on the arse, apparently forgetting that wizards didn't need to do either. "Just got to hop in the water and _go_."

As if he had regularly jumped in the Channel and doggy-paddled whenever he'd been in a temper at the Burrow. As if the mountains and the valleys of the Danube could actually contain anything that didn't want to be contained. As if he had anything to _flee_.

There was Romania, and it was enough.

It was a country at once pristine and molested, with untouched fields of green and yellow nestled between snowy mountain ranges, obscuring the crumbling cement and rusted machinery of a political experiment gone wrong. It was a country of honour and beauty that had turned on itself without batting an eye, filling jails and surveilling bodies and inventing laws with a zeal that Voldemort would have envied.

But it suited the dragons just fine, and so it suited Charlie. He wore just as much rust, after all, although people generally only noticed the bit on the outside.

*

Bill was the only one who ever noticed the rust on the inside.

"Sitting around here with your hand on your cock and a stack of Quidditch mags in the loo," Bill shouted at him back then, before Romania, throwing a pile of stained _Cannons_ photos to the floor. "Get a fucking job, Charlie."

"Fuck off," Charlie snarled back, hunching his shoulders and glaring. "You decide to play mum now, is that it? Got enough of this from her, you fucking prick."

"Well, now you're hearing it from me, too." Bill didn't back down. He never did. Oldest child syndrome, and all that. "You want to play Quidditch? Then go out and fucking _do it_."

Charlie clenched his jaw and looked away, and with barely a moment's pause, Bill stormed across the room towards him, dropped to a crouch, and grabbed Charlie's chin in one big hand, yanking his head up.

"And if you want to fuck Quidditch players, go out and fucking do that, too. Quit making such a big production of everything." He shoved Charlie away and stalked out, slamming the door behind him, and Charlie rubbed at his jaw and furrowed his brow, because that wasn't quite right, and Bill knew it – not least because Bill had never played Quidditch.

*

Romania, it turned out, was a perfect compromise. He got to do physical work on a team with a good deal of fit young men, and it got him away from the Burrow. Bill was in Egypt by then anyway, and the Burrow wasn't worth much without him.

*

"I can't play pro Quidditch with this shoulder, and you know it," Charlie shot back, the tenth time they'd had that argument, shrugging angrily with an arm that had taken a Bludger in seventh year and never worked quite right since, magic be damned.

Bill fell into a chair then with a dramatic sigh. "Then what do you want to _do_?" he asked plainly, and the disappointment in his voice bothered Charlie more than the fact that he couldn't answer. Bill turned to look out the window, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. "You know, just because you're confused about other things, it doesn't mean you've got to be confused about this."

Charlie was only able to stare at him, mouth hanging open. He cocked his head to the side. "I'm not confused about anything," he said flatly.

Bill held his eyes for a long minute. "So, you're not confused about Colin Wheatcroft," he challenged.

Charlie narrowed his eyes. "No."

"Not confused about David Whatsisname?"

"No."

"Not still confused about… me."

Charlie had to hand it to him; he'd stumbled only briefly before that trademark Bill confidence returned, challenging Charlie with the set of Bill's jaw and the cool look in his eyes. That smug fucking bastard wouldn't get away with this. Charlie paused for just a second, narrowing his eyes and letting his tongue moisten his bottom lip before he sauntered over to Bill's chair, leaning over to whisper in his ear, "I was never confused about you. That was all you, remember?" He knew his breath was hitting that spot just below Bill's ear that he craved so much, the one that could make him groan deep in his chest and writhe on the bed with a barely suppressed whisper, _"Charlie…"  
_  
But he didn't groan then; he only clenched his jaw and gave Charlie a thin, patronising smile. "I was just making sure you knew how to do it," he said smoothly, pushing Charlie away as he rose from the chair and strode towards the door. "Like any good older brother."

"Well, I sure know how to do it now, don't I?"

"Yeah. I guess you do."

They stared at each other in silence, Bill's hand curled around the door knob and his chest rising and falling more rapidly than it probably should have been, as Charlie stood in the centre of the room and chewed on his bottom lip, trying to think of something else to say and failing miserably. That was the thing with Bill lately: he could go from a shit-talking older brother with an axe to grind or advice to dish out, to a sad-eyed, distant former lover in the blink of an eye, and whenever that happened, neither of them knew what they were supposed to say to each other. "I guess I do," ventured Charlie at last, moving towards him with careful steps and his eyes trained on Bill. He reached the door and stood directly in front of Bill, matching his height and his breathing and his uncertainty, blue eyes on blue.

Bill waited three agonising seconds before dropping his eyes. "Charlie," he muttered, wiping a hand over his mouth, but Charlie stopped him, because he didn't need to hear this, not again. There were only so many times your own fucking brother could break things off with you, after all, before your world got really fucked up.

"Yeah," he said quickly, pushing past Bill and heading out the door. "I know."

*

But we're getting ahead of ourselves. That was all back at the Burrow, but first, there was Romania.

*

Romania was made of sharp edges and strong coffee, blurred green foliage and whispers in the dark. Romania was full of secrets and lies, a country of dragons and werewolves and vampires and people who would deny the existence of all three if asked directly by the wrong authorities. Romania was sun in the winter and ice in the grass and wind in the morning.

Romania was alive like fire, a country consumed by dragon's breath. Charlie woke up every morning and inhaled as deeply as he could, letting it burn his lungs and tear up his eyes and promising himself he would never, ever go back to the way things were back home, in the places that lived only on rain and mud and air fouled by accusation and disappointment.

*

Bill never should have come to Romania, that much was clear.

Charlie was tanned now, fit and content and finally able to get out of bed before eleven on sunny days when there were Ridgebacks to feed. He grabbed the reins of the big red one, the old girl they'd named Martha that seemed to answer only to Charlie, and he tugged her towards the edge of the pen so the medic could have a look at that torn left claw. "There you go, baby," he purred to her, glancing up twenty feet as though he could actually whisper in her ear and soothe her. "We'll fix you up." Handing her over to the new team and wiping his hands on his jeans, he headed towards the equipment shed to grab his shirt and some lunch.

He paused in the door, one hand halfway through his sweat-drenched hair and his body locked in place as he stared.

"I think the words you're looking for are, 'What the fuck are you doing here?'" Bill offered.

Charlie dropped his hand and grabbed his shirt from the ledge inside the door. "Yeah, you're right," he muttered. "So, what the fuck are you doing here?" He pulled the shirt angrily over his head, ignoring the way Bill's eyes hung on to him, searching for chest and muscle and the curve of naked shoulder even through the shirt.

"Don't know," said Bill. "Missed you, or something." He grinned, the slow twist of his lips making Charlie's stomach turn in on itself with desire and nausea.

"Or something." Charlie paused, appraising Bill with hands lodged on his hips, index fingers curled loosely into the front pockets and thumbs in the back. "Well, come on, then," he said at last, jerking his head towards the main compound and allowing himself a smirk. "You want a sandwich, or what?"

They joined the other members of Charlie's Ridgeback team in the cafeteria, grabbing sandwiches piled high with ham and tomatoes and thick slabs of that strong yellow cheese the local farm kids brought in from down the road in exchange for a chance to mumble a few words of embarrassed English at the idolised dragon-keepers. They washed it down with plenty of beer, and Charlie introduced his brother around, grinning as his friends slapped Bill on the back, refilled his mug and regaled him with tales of Charlie's success with the dragons. Charlie fit in there; he knew that would be obvious. Bill would have to notice _that_, at least, and maybe – just maybe – Bill would be proud of him.

He showed Bill around the compound after that, pointing out the ooze on Martha's claw and the unprecedented orange stripe down the back of the new Horntail, keeping up a steady chatter as Bill asked questions and made wisecracks and generally just smiled and followed Charlie through the mud and grass until the tour was over. It was pleasant, Charlie couldn't help but think, even _fun_, a word he hadn't associated with Bill since they were kids and used to hide Percy's crayon-scrawled job applications behind the shed with the gnomes.

"So," he began, leaning back against the Fireball fence and stretching his arms out to the side, "how's Egypt, then?"

"All right." Bill shrugged. "Lots of goblins."

Charlie laughed, picturing his tall, red-headed brother in the midst of the goblins. "Yeah." He paused. "You ever miss home?"

"No."

Charlie's stomach knotted at the quick reply. "No, I know, I just meant–"

"I know what you meant, and I said _no_."

Charlie stared at him. "Oh, fuck you," he muttered at last, dropping his arms and striding away from the fence. "Is this what we're doing now? Fine. Go home, Bill. I got work to do."

"Oh come on, don't be a prick," Bill called after him, but Charlie kept walking up the hill. "Look, I met someone in Egypt. You should probably know about that."

Charlie stopped dead in his tracks, his boot almost catching on a thick root and wrenching his ankle. "Who?" he called, not turning around.

Bill sighed, and even without looking, Charlie could see the way his brother would be rubbing at his forehead, little crinkles around his eyes like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. "Her name's Catherine. She does translation work at the bank."

Images of _Catherine_ tumbled through Charlie's mind – on her knees with Bill's cock in her mouth and a stack of Arabic-to-Gobbledegook documents piled beside her; on her back with Bill's cock shoved up inside her, reciting the Mermish alphabet in breathy gasps; on her –

He squeezed his eyes shut. "Great," he called again. "Good for you. Thanks for lunch. You should come back sometime, we'll have more beer." He waved his hand in a gesture he hoped conveyed nonchalance and, still without turning around, he continued up the hill to his cabin.

"Yeah," Bill called after him. "Okay. But look, Charlie, are you–"

Charlie turned at last and glanced down the hill, continuing to walk up backwards as he spread his arms open. "Not mad, dickhead," he sang. "Just busy, all right? Get out of here. Tell Catherine your little brother says hi." He kept his tone light and exhaled in relief when he saw Bill smirk.

"Okay," said Bill, still rubbing at his forehead. "See you later."

Charlie turned around again and didn't look back, striding straight to his cabin and collapsing through the door. He clicked the lock in place and leaned back against it, closing his eyes and hoping that lock would be strong enough to keep Bill from getting in and the quiet, pulsing anger from getting out.

*

Neither effort was terribly successful, but then, that was Romania: land of hopes and dreams and cops and robbers and fire and dragons and a _lot_ of fucking anger. Don't fuck with Romania, Charlie soon learned. She'll bite back.

*

There wasn't enough hot water in the entire fucking country to wash away what Charlie needed scoured. He stood under the greyish-brown spray for nearly half an hour, coaxing it over his skin and hair and pleading with it to make him clean, but to no avail. Cleanliness wasn't really for people like him. It was for people like Bill: people with Head Boy badges and prestigious jobs and enough money left over every month to give to charity. The soap felt thick and lifeless in Charlie's hands, clouding his body with suds that only sealed the dirt inside rather than washing it away.

_Catherine_.

He couldn't even think the name without wanting to retch, his stomach wrung out like a dirty dishrag and his hands shaking around the shampoo bottle. He scrubbed at his hair and his armpits and absently lifted his balls up to soap under there, and when he'd rinsed everything and the images of Bill and his girlfriend still hadn't left his mind, he stood under the spray and closed his eyes. Once he stopped fighting them, the images washed over him like the water, assaulting his mind and sliding down his neck and back: thin, wet, dripping memories.

There was Bill at sixteen, shouting at Charlie for walking in on him wanking in the loo.

There was Bill two weeks later, out on the back lawn trying to casually sip a beer he'd lifted from Arnie's dad's liquor cabinet earlier that day, while asking Charlie what he liked to do when he wanked. "What, you don't use lotion? You stupid git. Fine. Go get some and I'll show you."

There was the first time Charlie had touched him, a slow, guided hand smearing drops of liquid around the head of Bill's cock in small, tentative motions until Bill shuddered and came from that alone, sucking in a deep breath and storming off back to the house before Charlie could even ask him what he'd done wrong.

There was Bill at seventeen, slipping into bed with Charlie over Christmas hols when the house was full of relatives and Percy wouldn't share. Hot bodies groped in the dark that night, pushing pyjama tops up and bottoms down, snapping elastic over wrists until skin slid against skin and hands shoved greedily. They didn't kiss, but Charlie buried his head in Bill's shoulder as Bill's arm pumped them together, nearly biting right through his lip when he felt the first bursts of Bill's come over his own swollen prick. He felt his own body explode with something he'd never felt before, burning hot with desperate arousal and mortified guilt. Then there was waking up stuck together in the morning, red-faced and laughing and much too sensitive to the touch of a flannel over their bits, and before they knew what they were doing, it had happened again, the wet flannel sliding over them and cleaning off the night's remnants while stimulating them just enough to produce more.

Charlie groaned in the shower and reached for his prick, sliding his hand through the soap again and touching himself.

He couldn't remember who had started it or who had ended it, but in between there had been countless fingers on muscle and mouths on skin, biting and licking and sucking each other dry, and later, when Bill had learned a few more things from God knew where, there had been fucking – silent, midnight fucking when the house was quiet and the blue hum of magic lined their room and kept their sounds in. There had been sensations Charlie had never dreamed of before, with Bill's cock inside him and Bill's arms wrapped around his chest and Bill's body draped over his back. "Charlie," he'd moan, his voice dry and choked. "God, just. You okay? Tell me it's… Tell me you're okay."

"Yeah," Charlie would breathe, collapsing down to his elbows and pushing back. "Yeah, I'm… it's okay."

That was a bit of an understatement, because it wasn't just okay, it was bloody fucking brilliant, and no one had ever made him feel the way Bill did, but then, of course, that was also precisely the problem, because Bill was his fucking brother, and there were some things you just didn't do, or talk about, or wish for, and _this _was definitely one of them. Charlie wasn't stupid. He knew that much.

He pressed a flat palm against the shower tiles and leaned forward, the other hand sliding over his prick in long, slow pulls lined with soap and water and the memory of Bill's hands on his skin. He was stained now, that was obvious: tainted and bruised and unable to have a normal relationship with anyone else, despite spending the better part of the past year trying to do just that with every bloke he met. He didn't want women and was appalled that Bill did. Somehow that made it worse. Charlie had the excuse of trying things on with a bloke, after all, whereas Bill didn't have any fucking excuse at all now. If it hadn't been about cock, for Bill, then it had just been about _Charlie_, and no, fuck, Charlie couldn't handle knowing that right now. He pulled at his cock, each stroke rougher than the last, shoving aside all his disappointment and confusion and red-hot, throbbing _anger _and just focusing on the feel of wet fingers over his prick, down past his balls, coaxing pleasure from him that he rarely felt anymore.

He came biting his lip, head hanging low and half-closed eyes watching the water wash over his prick as it pulsed, come seeping down the drain amid swirls of grey suds.

The lock clicked and Charlie froze, his ears sharpened to the soft swallow at the door. He turned around against his better judgement and peered through the foggy glass of the shower, eyes locking on his brother. Bill stood in the doorway, fully clothed, flushed, and panting.

_Don't fucking come near me_, Charlie wanted to say. _Fuck off and never come back_. But he couldn't say any of those things; he could only stare through the glass, water still sliding down his back and chest, over his prick and down his thighs to pool in lukewarm puddles at his feet. He began to shake his head slowly and rhythmically as Bill pulled his shirt over his head.

"Fuck off," he whispered, but it was drowned in the sound of rushing water, and then Bill kicked his boots off and shoved his trousers down, his clothes disappearing from his body at an increasingly frantic pace.

"So fucking gorgeous," Bill was muttering. "I watched you, just now. God, you still do it, don't you? That look on your face when you come, like it's the hardest and best thing in the fucking world. I watched you, and God, I fucking missed you, let me just… Come on, Charlie, let me…" He pulled the shower door open, his clothes a heap on the floor and his eyes flashing, and Charlie sucked in a breath and moved back to let him in, his brain no longer connecting to his prick, which saw only _Bill_ and _naked _and _fuck God yes_.

Bill was on him in seconds, like a hungry fucking animal, pushing him back against the wet tiles and attacking his mouth, hot lips and tongue on Charlie's, firm hands pressed against his chest, shoulders, biceps, and insistent hips shoving into him. He could only grab Bill's head and part his lips, tugging the leather tie out of his long hair and clutching at fistfuls of it as his tongue tangled with Bill's and his prick jerked up again between their crushed bodies.

"Fucking missed you, Charlie," he murmured against Charlie's mouth, his breath hot and his lips wet with water and the taste of Charlie's tongue. "Need this…" He swallowed and dropped his head to bite at Charlie's neck. "Need you so fucking much."

It was spinning out of control; Charlie couldn't stop it and needed everything, _now_. He turned around without thinking, spreading his legs and pressing his forehead into the tile, reaching back to grab Bill's balls and slide wet fingers up his prick, pulling it through the water and up the cleft of his arse. _Now. God, fuck, now_. Bill groaned, falling on top of him with barely a pause, crushing his chest against Charlie's back and raking teeth over his shoulder. "Do it," Charlie whispered, turning his head to the side so his cheek mashed against the wall. "You remember how?" he added nastily, lifting his chin.

Bill paused for a split second, staring at him, before planting a firm hand between his shoulder blades and pressing his prick further into Charlie's cleft with the other. "Yeah, I remember how, you fucking prick," he muttered in Charlie's ear, then punctuated the sentiment with a bite at the lobe. Charlie moaned and pushed his hips back, a small smile on his lips. He didn't know what Bill used and he didn't care – soap or water or his own dripping precome, it didn't even matter – but Bill nudged his prick up and pushed his fingers into Charlie, curling them inside and moving quickly to stretch him. The pulse of Bill's prick just above his entrance made Charlie shiver, reaching back to bat Bill's hands away and beg him for it.

"Fuck, Charlie," muttered Bill, kissing the back of his neck and grabbing hold of his own prick against Charlie's arse. "You drive me fucking mad, you know that? Want you all the fucking time. Think about you… about _this_… all the time." The head of his cock slipped inside and he pushed, nudging Charlie's legs further apart with his thigh and shoving deep inside him. Charlie collapsed into the wall with a long, slow moan, raising his arms to claw fingernails over the chipped tiles. Bill covered him from head to foot, his body stretched over Charlie's, hands rising to Charlie's to grip their fingers together with each thrust, thighs pushing against Charlie's, nipples rough and rubbing against Charlie's shoulder blades, lips locked against his neck, and his long, thick cock lodged deep inside Charlie's body, moving with slow, desperate thrusts that curled Charlie's toes and sent waves of colour across his vision.

Somehow the water stayed warm enough, washing over them in sheets and seeping between their bodies, thick drops facilitating the sliding of skin and the wet kisses and the slick glide of Bill's cock in and out of Charlie's body. Charlie could only close his eyes and let his body light on fire, one hand trailing down the wall until it reached his own cock and he pulled at it, hard and desperate. Bill fucked him just as he always had – long and slow and with choked murmurs against his ear – and Charlie fell into it, letting himself feel every inch of it, savour every thrust, and absorb every endearment.

"Fucking love you," Bill whispered, his voice soft and warm and making Charlie ache down to the bottoms of his feet. "Have to know… Just like this… want you like this… want all of you. God, I just…" Words mixed with water and moans and the soft rhythm of Romania that lurked just outside. When Bill came, Charlie felt the heartbeat at his back nearly stop, thighs shuddering behind him and fingers clenched hard over his own. He felt hot come inside him and Bill's pulsing prick and he nearly wept, because God and fuck, Bill fucking _loved_ him, Bill came here for this, for him. "Charlie…" moaned Bill, his lips wet over Charlie's ear, and the low vibration of his voice sent Charlie's hand flying over his own prick, stilling a moment later as his body convulsed, his second orgasm in twenty minutes making his legs weak and sending his balls into a complete fucking spasm. Bill's hand covered his and slid through the come, and in another moment, Bill's cock slipped out and Charlie slumped against the wall, feeling Bill's come trickle out of him and mix with his own as it slid down his thighs and into the cooling water.

They stayed wrapped together like that for several long minutes, chests heaving and eyes wet and lips quietly seeking, until at last the water turned to ice.

*

_That_ was what made Romania first, by the way.

*

Bill left quietly soon after, promising to visit and Floo and write, his clothes on and his shoulders thrown back once again in his standard leadership pose. His face had returned to his usual slightly bemused severity, cheeks flushed but eyes hard. Charlie frowned and asked him to stay, promising him a spot on the Fireball team and his own cabin, if he didn't want to stay in Charlie's. They could work together, Charlie said, getting a decent workout during the day and relaxing with a few beers at night. It would be fantastic.

Bill just smiled at him and cuffed him on the arm. "Nah," he said, shifting his gaze to something beyond Charlie's shoulder. "But I'll see you soon."

With that, he was off down the hill to the Apparition point, Romania swallowing him up in grass and mountain and an arsenal of smooth, black lies.

*

It wasn't Romania's fault, not really, but she was easy to blame and so Charlie took to it with some regularity. For months he sat around and rusted, his prick cooling from lack of use and his mind turning on a continuous cycle of _Fucking dickhead_ and _Go find him_ and _Wait longer_.

Waiting wasn't Charlie's style, though, nor was rational decision-making, and so one night in August, drunk on absinthe and having lost at least a week's wages – maybe more, _fuck_ – on poker with the fucking stable boys, he decided his life was shite anyway, so why not take a trip to Egypt. Long-distance Apparition was tricky at the best of times, but he got it right after only three attempts – the earlier splinchings affecting only minor things like pinkie fingers and eyebrows that were quickly righted.

He landed in the bedroom of Bill's flat and took in the rumpled sheets with a pained swallow, trying to keep his booze down. The whole place smelled like money and attitude. Charlie had always made do with only one of those, but Bill had both, the whole package – and a girl besides, Charlie reminded himself with a sickened laugh. Couldn't forget about that. He sprawled out on the bed and locked his hands behind his head, waiting a few minutes until he heard footsteps in the hall.

"Yeah, I'm in here," he called, vaguely guiltily. The footsteps stopped. "Got tired of waiting for you, okay?" He ran a hand over his face and then down, flattening his palm out and sliding it over his chest and stomach. "I want to fuck," he muttered, not sure if Bill could hear him or not, but hell, it was the truth. His hand crawled down further, cupping his prick and beginning to rub as his imagination caught fire. "Want to fuck you so hard you fucking black out from it." His prick twitched under his hand and he ground into it through his trousers, heat rushing up his thighs and colouring his face. His vision swam as the absinthe took revenge behind his eyes and began to stab at him with tiny pinpricks. "Want to… fucking… ram into you…" He groaned and lifted his hips. "… and I know you fucking want it too, so stop fucking pretending you don't. I don't care if we're not supposed to do it, fuck that. Don't tell me you don't want to suck me dry, I know you fucking want to, know you think about–"

"I've called the police!" a shaking voice called from the hallway, and Charlie's eyes flew open. "And I have a- a gun here. So don't- don't try anything!"

Charlie froze and his stomach lurched. Oh, holy _shit_.

He heard the front door slam and there was noise in the hall, whispering and weeping and quietly barked instructions. Charlie lifted his hand from his prick and balled it into a fist, but apart from that, he couldn't move. The bedroom door flew open in another second, and he found Bill staring at him.

"Charlie," he said, his voice low and angry. "_What_ the fuck?"

He stared back, his clouded mind working to process what was going on. "I- what? I just–"

"What the hell were you saying? You fucking scared Catherine half to death!"

He closed his mouth and swallowed, the colour behind his eyes blooming into traitorous shapes that hacked away at his skull. A woman appeared behind Bill – small, unremarkable, trembling – and pointed a finger at Charlie before turning to glare at Bill.

"Your _brother_?" she shrieked, and Charlie winced at the knife in his eyeballs. "He's been stalking me! You should have heard him, Bill – he was going to- to–" She clamped her mouth shut and tightened her grip on Bill's arm.

"Not _you_," slurred Charlie as he struggled to sit up, his brows knitting together in irritation, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bill's entire body tense.

"It's not appropriate," said Bill quietly, not looking at Charlie. "I know you thought Catherine's picture was beautiful, when I showed you…" He glanced down at her, swallowing, "…but she's with me. You can't- act like this."

Charlie's mouth fell open. He blinked rapidly and stared at Bill, who had one arm slung protectively around Catherine's shoulders, fingers hanging limp over her arm. It didn't make sense, Bill and this creature. They didn't look right together. Charlie squinted at them, hearing Bill's words echoing in his mind. His head pounded and his stomach swam. "Not _her_, you dumb fuck," he snapped. "I don't want to shag your fucking girlfriend." He rose from the bed against his better judgement, leaning one arm against the far wall. "You fucking live alone; that's why I'm fucking here. You promised me – said you'd come back. You fucking liar, fucking- just–" He swayed against the wall, the look of guilt and horror on Bill's face too much to take. Catherine was darting her eyes between the pair of them, and Bill tightened his grip on her, the loose fingers over her arm hooking into her and drawing her closer.

Charlie's eyes blurred and his stomach heaved. Bending in half, he felt a punch to his gut and he retched on the floor, coughing and aching and praying to disappear, to make all of this go away. _All of it_.

"Shit, he's drunk," he distantly heard Bill tell the girl. "Doesn't know what he's saying. I'm sorry, love, can you go over to Annie's for a bit? I've just– I'll get him home."

Charlie barely heard her leave, clucking her disapproval and insisting the police should take care of it. He slumped to the floor, trying and probably failing to avoid the pile of sick, and dropped his head back against the wall. He felt Bill kneel in front of him, and he struggled to open his eyes.

Bill gazed at him, eyes burning through Charlie as his hands came up to frame Charlie's face. "You can't be here," he said quietly, pausing to emphasise each word. "You can't just come here, and you definitely _cannot_ say things like that."

Charlie wiped at his mouth, running his tongue over his teeth and nearly gagging at the furry taste.

"_Charlie_," pleaded Bill, dropping his hands and leaning back on his heels. "You've got to go."

Charlie raised his head and blinked, a heavy fog hanging over him. "Nowhere to go," he mumbled, settling back against the wall again and closing his eyes. "Want to stay here."

"No. You can't."

Charlie cracked an eye open. "Come with me, then. You like Romania."

"No, I don't."

"Do so!"

"No, I really don't."

Charlie's mouth hung open as he stared at Bill. "You did before, when you were there."

Bill hesitated, his eyes dark and his fingers trembling where they rubbed at his forehead. "No." He shook his head.

"You told me you loved–"

"I lied."

Ah. Bill's voice was hard and crisp, and Charlie paused a second longer and then clamped his mouth shut. So that was the way it was going to be. He nodded, scrubbing at his face and struggling to push himself up from the floor. "Right," he muttered. "Right."

"Look, you all right to get back on your own?" Bill stood as well, his voice softer as he hauled Charlie up by the arm, but he released him as soon as he could, taking a step back and shoving his hands in his pockets as though to resist any other situation that may involve touching.

"I- yeah." There was nothing Charlie liked about that sentence, nothing about _all right_ or_ going back_ or _on your own_ that he wished to pursue, but he only coughed and ran the back of his hand over his mouth again, glancing down at the floor. "Uh, sorry about that."

Bill just shrugged and shook his head, his face suddenly lined and his eyes pleading. There were things they couldn't say now, things that would always exist without words, hovering in the air between them just outside of language, and Charlie felt a sudden urge to grab at them, to catch the words and trap them on his lips before they were lost to him forever and he forgot what it was he would have said, if he could have. "Bill," he began, but Bill was already finished with words; he wouldn't allow them anymore.

"No," he said again, ushering Charlie to the door and through the hall to the front entrance. He broke down only at the very end of the lane, as Charlie closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on his coordinates through the haze of booze and fear in his mind. He felt a hand on his lower back and lips at his ear, and he froze in place, not daring to move. "We can't," breathed Bill, his voice low but steady. "Not ever again. _Please_." His mouth brushed Charlie's skin and Charlie could feel the heartbeat at his back. "Don't come here. Don't make me say no again."

Charlie said nothing, but simply nodded and turned away, his fingertips numb and his mind locked on Romania. There was an old mill down the road from the compound, a rusted old piece of shit that must have been four hundred years old, but it still churned away. The locals seemed to know what to do to it to get it to work, and a couple of times a week Charlie would wander down the road to see if it was still running, creaking on its hinges and puffing clouds of smoke. One day, he ambled past on his way to the shops and found the fucking wheel completely collapsed in on itself, a heaping pile of rust and metal and gouged nails, twisted into the ground and abandoned. Sometimes things just fell apart, he figured, and there wasn't a fucking thing you could do to put them back together again.

*

They never spoke of it – _any_ of it – again.

*

Later, Charlie took up smoking, drinking and fucking like a professional – and not necessarily in that order. He worked his way up from the Ridgeback team to the coveted Horntails, with an extra gin ration every week and authorised trips to the brothels in Bucharest every month.

Later, there was the wedding, and the new war, and Shell Cottage – a place that smelled like Bill and flowers and mud washing down the shower drain. Everything and nothing changed, and Charlie arrived back in England to play best man in dress robes that choked him no matter how insistently he tugged at the collar.

Later, there was Fred, and the guilt that came with realising that losing him had not been nearly as hard as losing Bill.

But first – no, _always_ – there was Romania.

 

-fin-


End file.
